


viewfinder

by bystander



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: First Meetings, Photography, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2017-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 12:23:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12630990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bystander/pseuds/bystander
Summary: And, what’s more, you’ve always been taking pictures.





	viewfinder

**Author's Note:**

> this is a wip from a while ago, but i ended up losing steam so it's just a one chapter thing now lol

You’re five when you pick up your mother’s camera for the first time.

‘Kaa-san,’ you say, inspecting it with that single-minded focus your mother says has been a defining characteristic of yours since you were in diapers—determined to grab the unreachable planets from your hangar. ‘How does this work?’

You’d seen it out on occasions before, like on your birthdays and Christmases and when your grandmother had visited. Your mother had smiled so hard her cheeks had hurt for hours. You think the device must be super important and mystical as you peer into the lens.

‘The camera?’ your mother says, looking up from her novel. She adopts a half-smile and a gaze that seems miles and miles away from the living room, throw pillow nestled under her arms and over her bare feet, house warm from dinner cooking in the kitchen. ‘You take pictures with it, sweetie. Here, look.’

You are kind of amazed that your mother just let you have your way with the camera, despite it being 23,000 yen.

A week later, you meet the elusive kid next-door for the first time. He’d just moved in and was playing in the front yard instead of the back one, for once. Your mother had told you about him the day he had arrived, and you’d been rattling with excitement with the prospect of a kid your age to play with. You smile when you see him for yourself. He has spiky dark hair and sharp eyes, and he’s bent over a small square of land and digging a hole. You snap a photo just as he’s in the middle of a sneeze. 

He looks startled by the flash, then scowls in a childish mixture of annoyance and anger when he notices you leaning over your side of the fence.

Your mother will gently scold you when she hears the boy tattle—she’d composed a lecture on exactly why you should not take photos of strangers, but your new neighbor had looked very interesting and the two of you were going to be friends soon anyway. It had been starting to get a little lonely at home with your sister locking herself in her room all day.

You’re less sure of yourself when he marches up to the divide between your houses. ‘Delete that,’ he demands, face scrunched in a scowl, dirt marking his cheeks.

You look down at your mother’s camera. You don’t want to delete the photo. It’s just one of the hundreds you’d taken since acquiring it, but you already have a special fondness for the way this kid’s eyebrows join together and wrinkle, his eyes shut tight, the way his jaws spread open wide enough he could most likely eat an entire rice ball in one bite. He almost looks like he’s screaming. The grass is electric green along his toes, the sky wide and impossibly blue.

‘Um,’ you say. ‘No, thank you.’ That’s the polite way to reject someone, you remember your mother telling you. You’d always found it silly that you had to say thank you when you were not, not really.

The kid’s mouth sets deeper, his teeth grind. ‘You better,’ he says, determined. ‘Or I’ll make you.’

‘Fine,’ you say. You’ll just pretend to do it, whatever makes this kid happy. You angle the camera’s screen towards him. ’See here, I did it.’

‘Good,’ he declares, apparently satisfied. The anger in his face almost instantaneously melts away, so completely thoroughly you doubt it was there in the first place. Then he goes back to his hole and you start flipping through your photos, but you find out it’s actually gone.

You stare, for half a minute, then go back to the picture-taking function before rechecking the gallery, and it’s still not there. Your eyes start watering, slowly, ever so slowly, and then the dam breaks and you start bawling, cries heaving loud and wet, phlegm building in your nose, your throat.

The kid is wide eyed and unsure now, and he looks at anywhere but you, to his house to your house to the street to your father’s old flower garden.

When he realizes he has no choice but to approach you, he does so slowly and cautiously, like you’re a car alarm blaring and he doesn’t know how to disengage you. He begins to open his mouth when your mothers burst out of their respective houses simultaneously. 

‘Tooru!’ your mother says in frantic concern. Her hair is in a messy bun, strands dangling out from a frayed hair tie, pen tucked behind her ear. She must have been busy, you realize through your haze of tears. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘M-my picture isn’t in here anymore,’ you manage to make out in between wailing. ‘I-It was a really—I liked it a lot, and now it’s g-g-gone.’

You’re a little surprised yourself that you care so much about some picture you took on a whim—but there was a certain air about it you’re sure you can’t replicate again. You feel the loss ache in your little bones. It would’ve been one of your favorites, hung up on the fridge next to the pretty one your mom had acquired from someone special, of a bird caught exactly as it took off, one foot still on the ground. You’d always had a certain fascination with the impermanent.

The kid clears his throat. ‘Well,’ he says, still not looking at you, ‘you can take another one if you want.’

‘But it won’t be the same,’ you say reproachfully, pulled from your bawling to indignance. 

‘Hey,’ he says, irritated, turning to face you at last. Your breath sticks in your throat; the roundness of his cheeks and the furrow of his dark brows strike you with sudden electricity. ‘It’s your fault you took pictures of someone without asking them first, anyway.’

Your mother stoops down, gently combs your bangs out of your face with her fingers. ‘He’s right,’ she says, soft but firm. ‘You should apologize to him.’ She turns to the kid’s mother. ‘Speaking of which, I am so happy to meet you. The house was empty the past few years, I’m glad to see it filled now.’ She smiles. ‘I’m Oikawa Kyoko, by the way.’

The kid’s mother smiles in return. ‘I’m glad to be here—though it’s been an interesting start. I’m Iwaizumi Machiko. Introduce yourself to the Oikawas, dear,’ she adds, placing a hand on the kid’s shoulder.

‘Nice to meet you,’ Hajime-kun says, almost in recitation. ‘I’m Iwaizumi Hajime.’

Your mom nudges you with her elbow, a silent go on, now.

‘I’m Oikawa Tooru,’ you say, just a touch grudgingly. ‘Nice to meet you. And I’m sorry for taking a picture of you.’ You dumb baby, you say quietly in your head.

‘It’s okay,’ says Hajime. His ears flare red. ‘…I didn’t know you liked the picture that much. And I meant it. We can take a better one together later, if you want to.’

You look at him solemnly. The last of your tears had dried, though they’ve left tracks down your cheeks and you’re still sniffling a bit. His toes scrunch up in the dirt, fidgeting as the silence stretches longer. Your mother gives you a warning look, but it’s unneeded. Your habit of holding grudges wouldn’t fully solidify for quite a few years yet, after all. 

You hold out the camera for your mom to take, and she slips it from your hands as you tackle Hajime to the ground. ‘Let’s take one together, this time,’ you tell him, looking straight into his eyes. He returns your gaze, looking rather like he suddenly regrets a lot of things.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!!!


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